"Are you pleased?"

"Oh, Harcourt----!"

I began to pack up the tea-things. They both saw and heard me. It was their own fault if they did not go further.

"I'm looking forward to the bridge," said he. "A rustic bridge at the bottom, and then, perhaps, an asphalt path from the house over the meadow, so that in all weathers we can walk here dry-shod. The boys come into the wood--look at all these initials--and I thought of putting a simple fence, to prevent any one but ourselves----"

"Harcourt!"

"A simple fence," he continued, "just like what I have put round my garden and the fields. Then at the other side of the copse, away from the house, I would put a gate, and have keys--two keys, I think--one for me and one for you--not more; and I would bring the asphalt path----"

"But Harcourt-----"

"But Evelyn!"

"I--I--I----"

"You--you--you----?"

"I--I don't want an asphalt path."

"No? Perhaps you are right. Cinders perhaps. Yes. Or even gravel."

"But Harcourt--I don't want a path at all. I--I--can't afford a path."

He gave a roar of triumphant laughter. "Dearest! As if you were going to be bothered? The path's part of my present."

"The wood is your present," said Miss Beaumont. "Do you know--I don't care for the path. I'd rather always come as we came to-day. And I don't want a bridge. No--nor a fence either. I don't mind the boys and their initials. They and the girls have always come up to Other Kingdom and cut their names together in the bark. It's called the Fourth Time of Asking. I don't want it to stop."

"Ugh!" He pointed to a large heart transfixed by an arrow. "Ugh! Ugh!" I suspect that he was gaining time.

"They cut their names and go away, and when the first child is born they come again and deepen the cuts. So for each child. That's how you know: the initials that go right through to the wood are the fathers and mothers of large families, and the scratches in the bark that soon close up are boys and girls who were never married at all."

"You wonderful person! I've lived here all my life and never heard a word of this. Fancy folk-lore in Hertfordshire! I must tell the Archdeacon: he will be delighted----"

"And Harcourt, I don't want this to stop."

"My dear girl, the villagers will find other trees! There's nothing particular in Other Kingdom."

"But----"

"Other Kingdom shall be for us. You and I alone. Our initials only." His voice sank to a whisper.

"I don't want it fenced, in." Her face was turned to me; I saw that it was puzzled and frightened. "I hate fences. And bridges. And all paths.

It is my wood. Please: you gave me the wood."

"Why, yes!" he replied, soothing her. But I could see that he was angry.

"Of course. But aha! Evelyn, the meadow's mine; I have a right to fence there--between my domain and yours!"

"Oh, fence me out if you like! Fence me out as much as you like! But never in. Oh Harcourt, never in. I must be on the outside, I must be where any one can reach me. Year by year--while the initials deepen--the only thing worth feeling--and at last they close up--but one has felt them."

"Our initials!" he murmured, seizing upon the one word which he had understood and which was useful to him. "Let us carve our initials now.

You and I--a heart if you like it, and an arrow and everything.

H.W.--E.B."

"H.W.," she repeated, "and E.B."

He took out his penknife and drew her away in search of an unsullied tree. "E.B., Eternal Blessing. Mine! Mine! My haven from the world! My temple of purity. Oh the spiritual exaltation--you cannot understand it, but you will! Oh, the seclusion of Paradise. Year after year alone together, all in all to each other--year after year, soul to soul, E.B., Everlasting Bliss!"

He stretched out his hand to cut the initials. As he did so she seemed to awake from a dream. "Harcourt!" she cried, "Harcourt! What's that?

What's that red stuff on your finger and thumb?"

III

Oh, my goodness! Oh, all ye G.o.ddesses and G.o.ds! Here's a mess. Mr.

Worters has been reading Ford's inflammatory note-book.

"This my own fault," said Ford. "I should have labelled it 'Practically Private.' How could he know he was not meant to look inside?"

I spoke out severely, as an _employe_ should. "My dear boy, none of that. The label came unstuck. That was why Mr. Worters opened the book.

He never suspected it was private. See--the label's off."

"Scratched off," Ford retorted grimly, and glanced at his ankle.

I affect not to understand. "The point is this. Mr. Worters is thinking the matter over for four-and-twenty hours. If you take my advice you will apologize before that time elapses."

"And if I don't?"

"You know your own affairs of course. But don't forget that you are young and practically ignorant of life, and that you have scarcely any money of your own. As far as I can see, your career practically depends on the favour of Mr. Worters. You have laughed at him. He does not like being laughed at. It seems to me that your course is obvious."

"Apology?"

"Complete."

"And if I don't?"

"Departure."

He sat down on the stone steps and rested his head on his knees. On the lawn below us was Miss Beaumont, draggling about with some croquet b.a.l.l.s. Her lover was out in the meadow, superintending the course of the asphalt path. For the path is to be made, and so is the bridge, and the fence is to be built round Other Kingdom after all. In time Miss Beaumont saw how unreasonable were her objections. Of her own accord, one evening in the drawing-room, she gave her Harcourt permission to do what he liked. "That wood looks nearer," said Ford.

"The inside fences have gone: that brings it nearer. But my dear boy--you must settle what you're going to do."

"How much has he read?"

"Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one glance would be enough."